


the good-byes are gone (but the echoes remain)

by RageSeptember



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-11
Updated: 2014-11-11
Packaged: 2018-02-25 01:17:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2603216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RageSeptember/pseuds/RageSeptember
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Having returned to life and Baker Street two years after his confrontation with Moriarty on the rooftop, Sherlock realizes that something (someone) is missing.</p>
<p>Note: Written way back in 2012, so in no way, shape or form series 3 compliant.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the good-byes are gone (but the echoes remain)

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was orginally posted on Tumblr way back when it was first written (my very first Sherlock fic, you guys!). I have made some minor changes to it.

It takes time, but eventually things settle down and go back to the way they used to be. It is odd, really, how little faking your own death, disappearing for twoyears and spending another one rebuilding your reputation changes things.

Proving your status as not-a-fraud is a lot less complicated than placating John. The faked death he can readily understand and forgive; the two year long absence he can begrudgingly understand once you’ve explained it properly (using a ridiculous amount of words, even repeating yourself at times; John is by no means stupid; that is, no more stupid than any other person who is not _you_ ) (or Jim, but Jim is gone) but forgiveness takes time. Not because he is not overjoyed to see you, or because he wants to hold a grudge, but he mourned you so long and so hard, and the raw pain of it all is not an easy thing to let go.

But he does, eventually. Of course he does, and there you are again, at Baker Street 221B, solving crimes, John blogging about it, you playing the violin when there is nothing else to do, him hiding your cigarette stash, and you always managing to get him to hand them back in the end. There are dead bodies (thankfully, none of them are John’s, or Mrs. Hudson’s, or Lestrade’s) and a flying thief and the curious incident of the cat in the afternoon.

It is all good, it really is. But – and you fight and rage against this sinking realization for several weeks before you are forced to accept it because you just _can’t_ deny the truth when you know it to be the truth; the blissful self-delusion employed by the majority of the world will always be denied you – it is no longer enough.  

Once you’ve gotten hooked on coke, there are no thrills to be had from smoking grass anymore. After Moriarty, everyone else seems so _dull_ , so _ordinary_ , so bloody fucking _predictable_.

So when Mrs. Hudson brings you the roses, on one sunny April afternoon, and tells you she found them on the stairs with your name written in red ink on the attached envelope, you barely acknowledge it: “Thank you, Mrs. Hudson, just leave them on the table.”

She tells you that you should put them in water straight away, and aren’t you curious as to who sent them, and you sure don’t _look_ busy just sitting there in your armchair and staring out into nothing.

“Out, Mrs. Hudson”, you say, and it is rude (you know it is, because John has told you so many, many times, and while he lacks the power of any higher intellectual reasoning, he’s very good with social protocol and what-not), but she’s used to that from you and so she leaves as cheerfully as she came.

When John returns two hours later you are still in your chair, and the flowers are already wilting, untouched and waterless on the table. “What’s this?” John asks, picking them up. “Someone sent you flowers?”

The answer should be obvious, so you can’t be bothered to voice it. John sighs. “There’s a card, too. Did you see that?”

“Yes.”

“But you haven’t opened it.”

“No.”

“Because of course you’ve already deduced who sent them.”

“No.”

“Oh. And you’re not at all interested in finding out?”

“Not really.”

“All right. Do you mind if I check it out, then?”

“Go ahead.”

And you hear him rip the envelope open, and then he says nothing, and he keeps on saying nothing for so long that eventually you have to look up and you see him standing there, so very still, staring at the card like it’s a poisonous snake, a grenade about to go off, a ghost of Christmas past. “John? What does it say?”

He still doesn’t speak, but he holds the card out for you, so you take it. Heavy, thick, cream-coloured, expensive. The writing is bold and effortless, playful, and the words –

_Congratulations on staying alive!_

_xoxoxo_

_Ps: Guess who else is not dead!:D_

No signature. Unfortunately, it seems even John doesn’t need one to understand who the sender is. But he tries – good, old John, he tries. “Some kind of sick joke, maybe?” he suggest, but his voice is strained and you can tell he doesn’t believe it either.

If one genius can fake his own death, why not another?

You _do_ feel bad for John, for he is obviously quite shaken, and you are worried too, because… well, it’s _Moriarty_ , and - objectively speaking - he’s an extremely worrying person. Mostly, however, you feel…

“No. No, no, no! For God’s sake, Sherlock! You are absolutely unbelievable! He forced you to kill yourself – “

“Fake my own death.”

“That... It doesn't _matter_ , Sherlock! He’s killed other people. He threatened to kill me and Greg and Mrs. Hudson, all because of some twisted _game_ he thinks you’re playing – “

“I’m aware of all that, John. What’s your point?”

“You _are_ aware of it! That’s my point! You know what he’s done, what he _is_ , and yet – look at you, just look at you!”

“Again: what is your point?”

“You’re happy! You’re bloody _happy_ that he’s alive!”

Well. You would have gone with ‘expectant’, but you guess happy is not too far off.


End file.
